


to fall down (and get back up)

by confettitty



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: BOTTOMI, Coming Out, Domestic, Dream Daddy inspired, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Single Parents, a bit of beer drinking cuz yk dad things, a lot of dad talk about kids, honestly i dont know how parenting works but i tried, kiyoomi's daughter doing god's work for him, no beta we die like men, their kids are teenagers !!!, this entire fic is kiyoomi thirsting over atsumu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29597751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confettitty/pseuds/confettitty
Summary: The universe must have it out for him, Kiyoomi thinks, because never in his life has he ever suffered from a series of unfortunate events. He’s a careful person—some might say too careful of a person, but he is adamant in his disagreeing because it has saved his ass one too many times from circumstances he’d much prefer avoiding rather than trying to struggle his way out of them.“Michi,” Kiyoomi said cautiously, finding his spot beside her, “what are you looking at?”“Any second now,” she had mumbled, curl of her lip scarily resembling Kiyoomi’s own when he’s feeling snippety and halfway through a tease. He lifted his head again and sipped at his coffee. What on earth could be so entertaining that it had drawn Michiko’s attention like this?Well, it presented itself—in the form of red shorts, a white pair of jogging sneakers, and a wide expanse of beautiful, tanned skin. What topped it all off was the blonde hair, horrifyingly brassy and untoned, bouncing on his head with every step that he took.Kiyoomi had choked promptly on his coffee, and that was when the chaos had ensued.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 207
Collections: SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021





	to fall down (and get back up)

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to [ ann ](https://twitter.com/daisycracks) who had given me some very sexy ideas in parts of this work :3c

The universe must have it out for him, Kiyoomi thinks, because never in his life has he ever suffered from a series of unfortunate events. He’s a careful person—some might say _too_ careful of a person, but he is adamant in his disagreeing because it has saved his ass one too many times from circumstances he’d much prefer avoiding rather than trying to struggle his way out of them.

This morning, he had come out of the kitchen after packing up his daughter’s lunch, a proper balance of carbohydrates, vegetables, and protein, which she had helped him prep, to find her gazing out the window curiously. He narrowed his eyes, coffee in hand, and stepped closer.

“Michi,” he said cautiously, finding his spot beside her, “what are you looking at?”

Nothing, apparently. Kiyoomi peeked outside, squinted under the white gleam of the morning sun, and looked to his daughter for answers.

“Any second now,” she had mumbled, curl of her lip scarily resembling Kiyoomi’s own when he’s feeling snippety and halfway through a tease. He lifted his head again and sipped at his coffee. What on earth could be so entertaining that it had drawn Michiko’s attention like this?

Well, it presented itself—in the form of red shorts, a white pair of jogging sneakers, and a wide expanse of beautiful, tanned skin. What topped it all off was the blonde hair, horrifyingly brassy and untoned, bouncing on his head with every step that he took.

Kiyoomi had choked promptly on his coffee.

That was when the chaos had ensued, all from one shirtless Miya taking his normal morning jog around the neighbourhood. Kiyoomi had tripped over the threshold of his front door while seeing Michiko out to her bus stop (thank god he saved himself in time, because he’d hate to have fallen on his front porch despite cleaning it every Sunday morning), then hit his head on the counter that sticks out while reaching for the cleaning supplies under the sink, and realized he had run out of dish soap when he went to clean his plates for after a quick lunch.

Things don’t end there, because Sakusa had spent half an hour tearing his home apart after discovering that his car keys weren’t in the basket by the garage _only to realize_ that they had been in his coat pocket the entire time—the same one hanging in the closet of the boot room. It was a whole waste of a half hour and more, since Kiyoomi knows he’s going to have to reorganize his bed sheets and fix all the throw pillows that have ended across the room in his vehement scavenge after coming back from the store.

To make matters worse, Kiyoomi is currently stuck in traffic. He’s never been a pleasant driver, but he is terribly tempted to drive his palm into the middle of his steering wheel as many times as it’ll take to relieve the stress weighing down on his shoulders. Michiko is going to be home in an hour and a half and Kiyoomi is supposed to have a movie night with her after making dinner and helping her with her homework, and _that_ is going to be very impossible to get to if he’s not even fucking _there for it._

When he gets through the brunt of it, some tame road work that had closed off all but one lane of the highway, Kiyoomi runs a hand through his hair, curses at the tangles at the back of his head, and nearly runs into someone booking it across the parking lot with an empty shopping cart.

 _Blonde._ Kiyoomi does slam his hand into his steering wheel this time, scoffs at the tossed wink Miya had thrown behind his shoulder, and bites the insides of his cheeks so hard he leaves indents. He can’t believe this—literally _all_ of this is because of Miya. He had set something off inside Kiyoomi this morning, and it has been mercilessly haunting him through his day.

Kiyoomi stomps his way through the aisles with a glare so frigid and frosty it scares everyone away from him, and good for them, because he might actually end up barking at them if they come too close. It’s fine so far, and Kiyoomi is starting to think that nothing can get worse because he genuinely believes that he’s had twenty years worth of bad luck all crammed into half of a day, but the worse comes in a tanned hand and neatly trimmed nails, closed around the last box of pancake mix on the shelf—the very same on Kiyoomi’s fingers are digging around the edges of.

Of course it’s Miya. Kiyoomi stares into golden eyes, unamused, and gives the box a tug. The blonde does not let go.

“It’s mine, Miya.”

“What? No, I saw it _first._ Let go.”

“No.”

“What—ya can’t just say _no._ That ain’t how it works.”

Kiyoomi pulls, hard enough to pull Miya with him, and feels only slightly sorry for when he crashes into the front of his shopping cart. “Yes it is. My daughter likes this brand.”

“Yeah?” Miya asks, nodding as though he understands. “Well mine does too,” and he _yanks._

Never in his life did Kiyoomi think he’d have a staring contest for so long his eyes brim with tears, and definitely not with Miya of all people. He blinks away first; as unwilling as he had been to succumb to the blonde, this is not how he wants his first tears to fall in front of a man he can hardly call a friend—Miya is an acquaintance. At _best._

“I win,” Miya says, then snatches the box of pancake mix from the shelf, but not before sticking his tongue out at Kiyoomi like the big man-baby he is. “Sorry ya suck at starin’ contests.”

Kiyoomi lunges forward and lands his solid grip back around the box, bar of his shopping cart pressed against his waist. “No.”

“I _toldja_ that ain’t how it works.”

“No.”

“Fine!” Miya shoves the box further into his hand and takes a step back, gaze unwavering as he looks Kiyoomi up and down. “Take it, but yer gonna owe me a helluva favour.”

Like hell he is, Kiyoomi thinks as he drops the pancake mix into his cart, eyes glaring holes into Miya’s back. His stupidly muscular back. He wants to throw one of those big puffer jackets at him—he’d do anything if it means he’ll stop running circles around their neighbourhood practically _naked._ His daughter is not supposed to look at topless men until she’s _at least_ eighteen.

It’s the last he sees of Miya that day, or so he thinks. He’s on his way to Michiko’s school to pick her up because shopping for dish soap had ended up with five extra bags of other groceries, and it took an hour too long for him to get out of there, so he thinks he might as well wait the ten minutes for the last bell to ring. She’ll be happy her father’s here to pick her up in his “nice and fancy car” that apparently has “all the other kids and adults turning their heads.”

Her words, not his. Fourteen year olds can be so smart sometimes, or maybe, Kiyoomi thinks proudly, it’s just _his_ fourteen year old. He waits inside his car, air conditioning humming just under the tune of whatever is playing on the radio, when he sees Miya again. The blonde leans against the side of his car door as he scrolls through his phone, and Kiyoomi has to calm every nerve in his body to not get out of his car and to teach him a lesson about _how to wear a shirt,_ especially since he doesn’t know how to keep one on or find shirts with arm holes that don’t drop to his waist.

The ice in his coffee clinks gently as Kiyoomi sips through the straw, fingers chilled with the condensation. He’s glad he’s parked where he is because he’s able to watch every move Miya makes without giving himself away, although he thinks he’s already inconspicuous enough with the way half his windows are tinted and his glasses sit, perched on top of his nose bridge.

As much as Miya pisses him off with his stupid Facebook statuses and insane amounts of sharing of random, useless videos that he assumes are meant to be “entertaining,” there is one thing Kiyoomi hates to admit—Miya Atsumu is undeniably, horrifyingly _hot,_ like stupidly handsome, sexy grin, and thick thighs kind of hot, and he will take that thought to the grave with him.

It’s like Miya has some sort of super power to recognize when people are thinking about him, because he looks up, turns his head, and stares straight at Kiyoomi. This is the next terrible thing that happens, which is going to lead to his greatest downfall, because Kiyoomi sputters over his coffee, fears that Atsumu might recognize him seeing as to how he’s somehow able to look _directly_ into his eyes when he’s got the blackest sunglasses on earth, and has to find napkins to cover for any spills (thankfully, there are none, but Kiyoomi doesn’t take his chances as he pats mindlessly over his shirt).

There’s a knock on his window, and Kiyoomi stops the curse that leaves his lips with a suck of harsh breath through his teeth, and dares a glance up, right into the cocky grin Miya sports, twisted and pleased. He makes a gesture, as though telling Kiyoomi to step outside of his car.

Well, he doesn’t, but he rolls down his window just a crack.

“Go away, Miya,” he states as nonchalantly as possible, staring straight ahead because the lone tree in the distance calls for his attention.

“Aw, what’s wrong? Had a bit of a spill in there?”

“No.”

“Maybe it’s karma.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well _I_ think so. Ya should’ve just given me that pancake mix.”

Kiyoomi rolls his window back up and waves Miya away with his hand. The blonde refuses to leave, however, and Kiyoomi has to lower his shades and send him a look that’s meant to look threatening, but it either doesn’t, or Miya just doesn’t give a shit. He hopes it’s the former, but has a bad feeling it’s the latter.

The last bell rings in the distance, so Kiyoomi counts to ten before begrudgingly unlocking his doors and pushing his driver’s side open, forcing Miya to take a step back.

“Whew, thought you were gonna wait in there forever,” Miya chortles.

Kiyoomi doesn’t look at him. “I didn’t come out for you.”

Before he’s given the snappy response he’s been expecting, Michiko comes out calling his name, and Kiyoomi raises an arm to bring her into a hug.

“Didn’t know you were coming to pick me up today!” she exclaims, then turns her attention to Miya and gives a little dip of her head. “Hi, Miya-san!”

God, she sounds like such a sweet angel. Kiyoomi can see the devilish intention behind the curl of her lips so _clearly_ from here. “Don’t talk to him, he’s not worth your time.”

“Aw, but why? He’s so nice! He goes jogging every morning, and you know because you were watching him this morning! You should learn from him, since you’re always sitting at home and working.” Kiyoomi lets out a silent scoff, just a huff leaving past his lips, as he stares at her disbelievingly. He doesn’t know if he should be impressed or disappointed.

“You were watchin’?” comes Miya’s voice.

Kiyoomi snaps his head in his direction, as if telling him to _shut up,_ but he thinks he might need to use more than just a death glare if he really wants Miya to stop talking. “I wasn’t. I was looking out the window and you just happened to pass by.”

“I can give ya some tips if yer up for a mornin’ jog sometime,” Miya responds with a wink, and this time it’s Kiyoomi’s turn to not have a chance to reply, because Miya’s kid bounces forward with an interruption.

“Daddy!” she calls out, arms curling immediately around him, then pulls away with a look of disgust. “Ugh, ya need shower! What’d ya do all day besides stinkin’ up the whole place?”

 _“What?”_ Miya screeches, incredulous, and Kiyoomi tries but fails to stifle the snort that comes out. Miya looks at him, appalled, then stutters through his words. “I—you— _no?_ I was _not_ stinkin’ up anything!”

“Whatevs,” she says and fakes a yawn, then turns to make a pilot’s gesture in greeting Kiyoomi. “Yer my dad’s friend, right? Sakusa-san?”

Friend? Since when? Kiyoomi flashes a grin, then says, “Sure. Something like that.” No, _nothing_ like that. He meets Miya’s eyes for a split second before urging Michiko inside his car, but not before saying goodbye and, just for Miya to see, sticking his tongue out, eyebrows raised and eyes taunting. He deserves it, and the look on his face as Kiyoomi slips back into his seat is, almost, not entirely, worth the entire day’s misfortunes.

“I got you your favourite pancake mix today,” he tells his daughter as they get on the freeway.

She gasps with surprise. “Really? _Seriously?_ Those are almost always gone when we visit the store.”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi responds, bitterly reminded of the interaction he and Miya had, “I had to snatch it away from Miya.”

“Hey, that’s not very nice.”

 _“He’s_ not very nice.”

“Yeah, but at least Yumeko is. I doubt he wanted them for himself, anyway.”

Kiyoomi slinks back into his seat just a little as they roll to a stop sign before the turn into their cul-de-sac. “Well, I saw it first.”

“I’m sure he said the same thing,” Michiko says with a laugh, then turns to look at him. “So that means I can share it right?”

Kiyoomi manages to get once glance at her before turning into their driveway, garage door lifting slowly to accommodate for his car. “What? You want to make pancakes with Yumeko?”

“Yeah! We have to work on a project this weekend anyway, and it’s not like she lives that far. I can just bring it over to hers.”

There is no way in hell he is letting Michiko step past the front door into a demon’s home without him there. There’s no helping it, Kiyoomi will have to go with her. It’s not like he works on the weekends, either, so he’ll have time. If Miya isn’t going to let him in, then Michiko won’t be going over.

To his displeasure, Miya welcomes them with open arms, literally.

“Welcome,” he says, door sliding open further, “to my humble abode.”

Yumeko snorts from somewhere behind him. “Who the hell still says that? Yer so old.”

“Hey!” Miya snaps, frowning. “I don’t like that kinda language.”

“Why? Ya can’t expect me to not pick up on it if yer the one around sayin’ shit like that,” Yumeko responds easily and sticks her tongue out in childish defiance. Kiyoomi thinks back to when Miya had done that to him at the grocery store, and distantly wonders if she picked that up from him, too. Michiko and Yumeko climb up the stairs to her room and tell the adults they’ll be down whenever the pancakes are ready. Kiyoomi’s hand closes around the edges of the box, heavy in his hand.

“So,” Miya starts and swings the front door closed with an unnecessarily dramatic twirl on his heels, “still think you should’ve gotten the pancake mix?”

Kiyoomi wants to hit him on the head with it, but he doesn’t, and leans forward instead to click the lock in place. “Yes, considering how a robber can just waltz in here and steal it since you never lock your _door.”_

Atsumu gawks at him. “Yer insinuatin’ that a robber would come in here and steal my _pancake mix_ of all things. That’s what yer sayin’.”

Kiyoomi toes off his shoes on the welcome mat and brushes past him into where he assumes the kitchen should be, then drops the pancake mix on the counter. “Maybe they’ll steal your obnoxious sneaker collection too,” he responds, eyeing the pile of various Nike and Adidas shoe boxes on display in the living room.

“Now _that’s_ more like it, but I wouldn’t let ‘em steal ‘em in the first place.”

Kiyoomi turns to face the blonde. “Well, then, maybe start locking your door.”

“I do! It was just _one time.”_

He decides to ignore Atsumu in favour of tearing the box open, then slides it over to Miya who holds a big mixing bowl in his hands. Ten minutes later finds Kiyoomi sitting at the dining table, laptop on his thighs, and staring out into the yard, where sunlight shines down on glossy foliage and sunset-coloured tulips.

“Do you want coffee?” Miya asks from where he stands in the kitchen, an awfully bright apron around his neck. “Tea?”

“Jasmine.”

He finds a steaming cup of tea placed next to him on the table a few minutes later. “You gonna help me or just stare at my garden all day?”

“Did you plant them yourself?” Kiyoomi nods his chin at the flowers.

Miya glances down at him just as he looks up. “Yeah, had some help from Yumeko a few years ago. Now they just keep on growin’ every year.”

Kiyoomi redirects his attention to his tea as he reaches for it, then takes a sip. He blinks. “There’s no honey in this.”

“How was I supposed t’know ya wanted honey in yer tea?” Miya exclaims accusingly, like it’s somehow _his_ fault for not knowing he likes both his coffee and tea with sweetener. Kiyoomi stares at him until he grabs the honey, watches Miya squeeze the bottle and then pull back and drop a small, silver spoon into it. He holds his cup out further, and Miya raises a brow at him, mouth falling open with disbelief.

_“More?”_

The honey drips, just a little bit. Kiyoomi frowns. “More.”

“Oh, I see,” Miya drawls out with a muse, and squeezes enough honey for a satisfied hum to sound from the back of Kiyoomi’s throat, “all that honey to make up for the lack of sweetness in yer soul, ain’t it?”

Kiyoomi stares at him through his lashes, unimpressed, and stirs his tea. He does end up helping Miya a little, only because he feels a little bad, but those toned arms look spectacular from where he stands beside him, too. It’s better to get a little bit of a close-up, right?

Miya squeezes the pancake batter out of a piping bag he had filled with batter, and Kiyoomi notes the way those forearm muscles tense and relax every time he lifts the pan. Dish washing proves to be just a bit more difficult when there’s a distraction like that off to Kiyoomi’s left. He nearly drops something after his grip around it had loosened from his attention being pulled toward the way Miya’s large tee had hung loosely down his chest, the very obvious dip between his pecs bringing more to the imagination than Kiyoomi can ever envision in the million times he’s dreamt about something mildly similar.

Thankfully, Miya doesn’t notice. Kiyoomi finishes clearing up the counter just in time for the first batch of pancakes to come out. He’s in the middle of a text to Michiko when he hears Miya take in a large inhale, yet it still does nothing to prepare Kiyoomi for the shout that follows, loud enough to startle the phone out of Kiyoomi’s hands.

“GIRRRRRRRLLLSS! PANCAKES ARE READYYYYY!”

Kiyoomi manages to cup his phone in his hands despite his butter fingers, and then turns, appalled, to stare at Miya, who gives him a breathy laugh and sideways smirk before turning back to the pancakes.

What the _fuck,_ Kiyoomi thinks, jaw still dropped, is _wrong_ with this man? Who on earth has to yell _that_ loudly? He thinks he might’ve heard Miya loud and clear had he been at home. He thinks about the ground trembling, picture frames of his daughter crooked on the wall, and then he imagines Miya’s chest shaking with his laughter.

Kiyoomi hardly knows this man, had stepped into his home for the first time ever, and already feels like he’s smacking him in the face with a cold palm mended by a hot kiss. A hurricane brews inside his chest as thunderous feet run across the hallway above their heads, words and laughter like lightning striking down the stairs.

“Smells so good in here,” Kiyoomi hears Yumeko moan out as she slides two chairs out from under the dining table. Miya sets a fat stack of pancakes on a plate out in front of them, then grabs them sides and some cutlery.

Miya cuts out small little rectangles of butter and drops them into a small bowl before setting that down as well, along with a squeeze bottle of syrup, then turns to look at Kiyoomi. “Come sit,” he says, “have a bite.”

And Kiyoomi goes, but not before asking, “Aren’t you going to join us?”

“Well, I ain’t done yet. Ya can’t seriously think that measly stack is gonna feed me too.” It’s that grin again, the one Kiyoomi wants to slap off his face with his hands or his mouth, maybe both. Disgustingly handsome, atrociously charming. He’s starting to wonder if Miya has this effect on everyone, or if it’s just Kiyoomi, because if he isn’t the only one who feels like this from just simply _looking_ at him, that makes him feel a little better.

But he hates the idea of being just like everyone else, too.

“Not hungry?” Miya asks, reappearing in his field of vision with another full stack of pancakes. He’s been sitting here watching the girls eat, arms crossed and body leaned back into his chair while having some casual conversation with the girls. Yumeko tells him about the project that they’re working on together, and Michiko adds in extra details along the way.

“I was waiting for you.” It’s the truth, and Kiyoomi is just slightly embarrassed to admit it, but he doesn’t like the idea of leaving someone out of a meal, especially since Miya did all the cooking. He purses his lips, watches Miya set out cutlery for him before pulling out the seat next to him. Kiyoomi hates the fact that his pulse picks up.

“How sweet.”

“That’s not what you said earlier,” Kiyoomi brings up pointedly, but picks up his fork anyway. He’s about to reach for the last pancake on the first stack, since the girls look like they’re pretty full and are just about ready to get out of their hair, when Miya sets down two layers of steaming hot pancakes on his plate.

“Have this, it’s fresh.”

Kiyoomi stares at Miya but Miya isn’t looking at him, busy with trying to pick up a couple of butter pieces to plop in the middle of Kiyoomi's pancakes. He’s talking about how pancakes are better when you eat it hot, since the cold ones tend to get soggier, and that Kiyoomi can put as much syrup as he wants on them “free of charge” if it means he’ll come over again sometime for lunch or dinner.

Somewhere at the back of Kiyoomi’s mind, he thinks he’s got it all wrong, maybe. He digs his fork into a piece he had cut off, blows on it gently, and pops it into his mouth. He had been very nightmarishly mistaken because this beating in his heart, the perpetual warming energy that radiates off of Miya’s smiles and gestures, is Kiyoomi’s greatest downfall.

Unfortunate, he thinks, but maybe not the worst thing in the world.

He lies. It’s the absolute _worst._ Kiyoomi doesn’t even know where to start—can’t even _begin_ to decipher the turmoil that boils inside him over the following weeks. It’s agonizingly horrendous, and Kiyoomi thinks he might be starting to hate warm weather despite having always despised the winters growing up. This is going to be the first year where Kiyoomi wishes it’ll snow year-round.

Ever since the sun has started shining brighter, blue skies turning a beautiful blend of a warm watercolour palette when it reaches later and later into the evenings, Kiyoomi has started doing home workouts again, even though he doesn’t really need to, but he enjoys staying healthy and getting back into shape for the summer that's just around the corner. He’s not going to stay young forever, although he still gets many compliments on his skin for being in his thirties (he splurges often on skincare, don’t judge him). What’s _also_ important to note is the fact that Miya has started jogging _daily_ without a shirt on.

It’s terrible. He dreads it, and Kiyoomi absolutely _hates_ it because he looks so unbelievably _sexy_ when he’s sweating around in gym shorts and compression pants. It'll be one time, just once, Kiyoomi had promised himself two weeks worth of mornings ago, but he has ultimately broken that because he finds himself by his bedroom window again, figures that Miya has a lesser chance of peeking up so high when he runs by.

And there he goes again, arms pumping by his side as he runs down the sidewalk, black headband keeping his stupid floppy bangs off of his forehead. Kiyoomi observes the way his back muscles move with every step, biceps fully rounded out with his bent arms, and sighs into the steam of his coffee.

He hates how Miya has turned him into some sort of a closeted freak who likes to watch naked men run by every morning—correction, one _specific,_ almost-bare man, but he can’t help it. He stays in his mind rent-free, so Kiyoomi figures he should _at least_ get something out of it too, and if he has to resort to satisfying some ugly part inside, then he will. He has eyes for looking, after all, and he highly doubts Miya minds anyway. He waves at his neighbours watering their lawns with every round he makes anyway.

He must love the attention, and Kiyoomi grumbles internally because here he is, _willingly_ giving it.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?”

He turns so fast his heart leaps to his throat and only sighs out the breath he had been holding when he realizes it’s just Michiko. “Nothing interesting,” he quips past his lie. “You’re up early for a Saturday.”

His daughter hums and steps further into his bedroom until she flops backwards onto his bed. It’s already been made but he has never minded it because Michiko smooths out the wrinkles afterward immediately, just like he had taught her. In many ways, she’s like him, but he thinks she’s got a bit of a snake tongue when it comes to teasing him.

She doesn’t give much of a response considering how verbose she can be sometimes—Kiyoomi has a feeling something’s wrong. This part of parenting is always the difficult part. Taking care of toddlers is annoying and inevitable, but as long as he follows textbook rules, like knowing when they’re hungry, making sure to play with them actively, and other things like that, he’ll get by. Her pre-teen years weren’t bad, either. She’s always been studious and never asked for much despite Kiyoomi constantly spoiling her with random outings or gifts. He still remembers that time she had asked for fairy lights in her room after showing him thirty minutes worth of scrolling on her phone of various bedroom ideas on Pinterest.

Things were a little easier back then, but emotions start hitting them hard when they get into their teenage years, and Kiyoomi distantly remembers himself going through difficult times fueled by puberty and its yielding increase of testosterone floating around in his body.

He sets his coffee mug down and feels the bed dip under his weight. Michiko’s eyes are closed, but he knows she isn’t asleep. Much like him, neither of them aren’t big lovers of naptimes. If they wake up, they stay awake until the late hours.

“What’s wrong, Michi?” he asks, a hand brushing her black hair out of her face. Unlike his own, her hair is straight like her mother’s. Kiyoomi never thought much about it, but thinks that if she had taken his trait, she would’ve looked just as gorgeous.

“You won’t understand,” she mumbles out, eyelids opening up slowly to peer into his. He smiles when she does, then lays back with her, too.

“I might not,” he admits. He’s nervous, but he knows he’s going to have to shove it aside if he wants to help out in some way. Kiyoomi knows, of course, that there is never a “right way” to parenting. He’s afraid he’ll mess up, and he’s also aware it’s a common fear among all parents. He sucks in a breath. “But I’m happy when you’re happy, so that means I’m sad when you are, too. And you don’t have to tell me, by all means, but I’m here if you need someone to listen to you, okay?”

“Okay,” Michiko whispers and turns her body to cradle into his. He wraps an arm around her, staring up at the ceiling. They’re like that for a minute, silent and comfortable, until Michiko peels off him and sits up. “I’m ready.”

“To what? To talk?”

“Yeah.”

Kiyoomi sits up with her, expression serious. “Wait, I need to know if you’re absolutely certain. I don’t want to pressure you if—if you’re not comfortable. I was a teenager too, I know how it feels when adults try to coax you into telling them—”

“Dad,” Michiko interrupts, a small smile dancing on her face. Kiyoomi can hear the tease behind it. “It’s fine. I want to talk to you.”

Kiyoomi swallows and sits up straighter, wanting her to know that she’s got his full attention. This is the time to get it right; he’s not going to mess up. He will always be here for her no matter what, whether it be because of a failing class, a bully, or wanting to get new glasses—

“I’m bisexual.”

Oh. Well, that’s not what Kiyoomi had expected, and for a second he fears he shows it on his face and he grasps for words to say because _that_ definitely won’t be good for her. “Oh, yeah, okay, that’s fine. Very normal. I will support you no matter—”

“Oh, no, I know, I’ve seen the way you look at Miya-san, but what I’m _actually_ struggling with is this classmate I have. I think I like her? I think I like her. She’s in my math class and she’s got, like, the highest grades in that class!”

Michiko speaks so quickly, Kiyoomi nearly misses the snarky comment she had slipped in, mouth falling open and closing upon recognition. He does _not_ look at Miya in _any_ way; if anything, he looks at him like he can’t wait for fall to hit and Miya is going to be forced to wear a shirt again. Maybe not jog at _all._

But this isn’t about him, so he saves himself from useless satire and tries to catch up to her words, albeit a little slowly. “Well, she’s your first crush, right?”

Michiko gives him a hint of a smile. “Yeah, I wasn’t really interested in all that romance crap people are always talking about.” She sighs dramatically and falls backward again, arms splayed out to her sides like a T. “Until her.”

“Maybe try to get to know her. You have to like them as a person first before you can really go falling in love like that,” Kiyoomi tells her, hand clasped into her smaller one. She squeezes back gently.

“I know. I talked to her a little bit. She’s really nice—but seriously, dad, you should take your own advice for once.” She rolls her head to the side to look at him, eyebrow raised, gives him a look like she knows. Kiyoomi frowns.

“I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Miya-san? What do you think about him?”

Kiyoomi thinks a lot of things about Miya, like how he’s impetuous and arrogant, always acting like he’s cocksure about everything life hurls at him. He wonders if Miya would like it if Kiyoomi had been the one cursing all the world’s misfortunes on him.

The flipside says he’s also earnest and heartfelt though, executes things with a sort of ferocity that drives Kiyoomi mad thinking about how admirable that kind of energy can be, but what comes out of his mouth in response to Michiko’s question is something different entirely, “Nothing.”

The look she gives him makes him suck in on his cheeks, and he reaches for his coffee, now lukewarm, to take a sip from it.

“You know,” she speaks after a brief silence, “it takes a crappy liar to know another one, and I’m a pretty crappy liar.

“Fine,” Kiyoomi snaps petulantly, one leg crossed and the other hanging off the side of the bed, “but you can’t tell him.”

Michiko makes a gesture as though telling him to go on, and Kiyoomi really doesn’t want to do any sort of self-reflecting because that just means he has to fully come to terms with how he feels toward Miya, and the thought of _that_ is already making him want to press his face into the nearest pillow until he either passes out or she takes back everything she said.

“He’s attractive.”

Michiko bursts out into laughter, the kind that makes her clutch her stomach and lift her knees to the roof. Kiyoomi would have laughed in another situation, but he feels more shame than anything, so he tries to tell himself that _he_ isn’t the one putting themselves on display for everyone to see like he’s some kind of trophy on the shelf— _he_ isn’t the only one that has succumbed to Miya’s irresistible charisma.

“And?”

“He’s charming.”

_“And?”_

“I hate him.”

 _“WHAT?”_ she screeches, sitting up in disbelief. “You don’t actually think that.”

Kiyoomi stands up and walks to the window to draw his blinds, catches a brief glimpse of Miya with his hands on his knees, shoulders raising and dropping with every short breath he takes in, and turns around. “I am done having this conversation. Come downstairs for breakfast.”

“But _dad,_ why won’t you just admit that you _like_ him?”

His footsteps going down the stairs thump loudly. Kiyoomi doesn’t _like_ Miya. He hardly knows him.

“Why don’t _you_ try getting to know him?”

“He’s annoying,” Kiyoomi cracks out, glare splitting through the fridge door as he curls a hand around the handle. “And loud. He’s always smiling and nobody is ever that happy so he _must_ have some deep, dark, terrible secret.” Then, he spins on his heel to look directly at his daughter. “On second thought, maybe you should stop hanging around Yumeko.”

“Dad, do you hear yourself? You sound absolutely nuts!”

Yes, he knows he does. He was joking, but he has a feeling Michiko is aware. “Is she still coming over tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that’s okay, right?”

“Of course.”

Yumeko coming over is okay. Miya coming over is _not._ Kiyoomi opens the front door midway through the afternoon to find Yumeko standing there with a sly grin, and Miya’s like a fox. Like father, like daughter. He lifts an eyebrow, decides not to ask, and pushes the door open further.

“Who invited you, Miya?” Kiyoomi asks Miya as he sets a six-pack of beers down on the kitchen island.

“Well, you ate at my house last time, so I figured I should be given the same treatment, right?” Miya asks. Kiyoomi has no idea what kind of face Atsumu is making because he has decided to put all of his attention into fiddling with his coffee machine, but he has a feeling he knows with the way Miya sneers his words.

“And please, for the love of god, stop callin’ me Miya. I put up with it _all day_ last time. Aren’t we close enough for us to call each other by our given?” There’s a short pause. “Omi?”

Kiyoomi snaps his head in Miya’s direction so fast he almost pinches a nerve in his neck. Despite the look of death he’s sending the other, he feels strangely warm, a little embarrassed, because what kind of nickname is _that_ supposed to be? Miya, who seems unfazed—has the actual _audacity_ to look somewhat pleased with himself like he had just achieved something no one in this world has ever come close to accomplishing—leans forward into the island, chin propped up on two arms.

“Omi… kun? Omi-Omi? C’mon, just call me Atsumu.”

The amount of names that Kiyoomi thinks of right at that moment rivals the number of times he has told Michiko, “What are you doing? Go to bed right now,” back when she was eight and got her own phone (Kiyoomi disagrees it’s too young; he’d rather have an immediate way of contacting her no matter what), but none of them leave his mouth when he mutters, “Fine, but only if you stop calling me that.”

“Great!” Atsumu beams, “Do ya work today? I can go if yer busy with some stuff.”

“No,” Kiyoomi answers a little too quickly, doesn’t know why he said _no_ when Atsumu himself offered to leave, but he refuses to mull over it in case, for whatever reason, the blonde can read it on his face. “I’m not busy.

“No plans today?”

“I’m waiting for maintenance to come in at six.”

“Maintenance?” Atsumu echoes like it’s the blandest food his tongue has ever tasted. “For what?”

Kiyoomi glances to his sink where a consistent _drip drip drip_ of water leaks from the faucet and drags Atsumu’s line of vision with him. “Yer sink? Nah, you don’t need _maintenance_ for that.”

To Kiyoomi’s surprise, Atsumu rounds the corner and pops the cabinet under the sink open, peeking in after moving some cleaning supplies aside. He watches Atsumu’s t-shirt (why the fuck is it so _small?)_ stretch across his back muscles, moving like they’ve got a mind of their own whenever Atsumu reaches for or fiddles with something.

Well, at least he’s wearing a shirt this time, although Kiyoomi does wonder how they would look from this distance away, close enough to touch without that thin, white-cotton barrier between them.

Atsumu ducks his head out, sitting back on his heels. “Ya got any equipment?”

All Kiyoomi can offer is a stare in hopes that Atsumu catches on and, thankfully, he does, but not without snorting and a grunt. “I’ll be right back.”

So while Atsumu jogs down the steps of his porch and heads home, Kiyoomi calls the plumbing service and, with an unexplainable lack of remorse, cancels his appointment with a single, straightforward apology.

Atsumu steps back through the front door just as his phone call ends, and Kiyoomi suspects that he had run the entire circuit with the way his chest heaves, shirt glued impossibly tighter to his torso. There’s sweat dripping down the sides of his forehead, which isn’t much of a surprise considering how sweltering the late afternoon heat is, but it still sends his mind straight to the gutter.

It _especially_ doesn’t help his case when Atsumu sets his toolbox down on the ground so that he can grab the bottom hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead, and Kiyoomi gets a full, front row seat to hard ridges and smooth hills—beautifully chiseled abs and an evident happy trail. Kiyoomi’s eyes drop, then the shirt follows, and he lifts his gaze to find honey-brown eyes staring at him, his expression unreadable.

See? It’s not Kiyoomi’s fault. One would be blind to not recognize the literal sex that oozes off of Atsumu, and, yeah, sometimes he wears glasses, but from this distance he doesn’t even _need_ it. The way heat flushes to his cheeks, heart squeezing in his chest from pure humiliation, must pass as a consequence of the hot weather. He turns and fans his cheeks, mumbles, “Why is it so hot today?” loud enough for the other to hear and prays that Atsumu will just get his head back under the damn sink.

“Ya think so?” Atsumu muses from behind him. “Hope ya don’t mind me takin’ this off then.”

Kiyoomi knows what he’s talking about before he even turns around—at this point he doesn’t even _want_ to turn around—and seethes, furious. How dare Atsumu come into his home and undress in front of him while bullshitting some excuse about how it’s the _weather_ and not the fact that he is _clearly_ trying to seduce him?

His jaw clenches and he stomps to his coffee machine, back purposely turned to Atsumu’s nakedness because he doesn’t know what exactly he’ll do if he sees him and suddenly starts thinking about _a plumber seduced while husband is out working._

He clears his throat, coffee maker whirring to life. “Did you want a drink?”

A muffled voice sounds from underneath his sink, “Yeah, sure, water’s good,” and Kiyoomi turns to find Atsumu down on his back, part of his chest underneath the sink as he sits with his legs spread. Kiyoomi swears that his boxer briefs peek out from under his shorts hiking up his thighs.

This should be illegal. No, this _has_ to be illegal. Kiyoomi feels like he’s watching something explicit that he shouldn’t be watching, not with their daughters upstairs, but still, he struggles taking his eyes off all the exposure as he pours water into a glass and drops a couple large ice cubes into it. Atsumu pulls his head out from under and glances up at him with a smile, accepting the glass of water in his hand with a grateful smile. It hasn’t even been five minutes yet, but it still should have been enough time, theoretically, for his heart to _adjust,_ but it doesn’t, because Atsumu is swallowing the water like he’s been deprived for days, throat bobbing and wetness spilling past the corners of his mouth.

Kiyoomi thinks he might actually pass away.

“All done!” says Atsumu a about half an hour later. Kiyoomi had taken to the couch to find something to read in hopes that it would distract him enough from the man under his kitchen sink, and it did work for a while until he turns around to find Atsumu making his way to him with his hands on his hips, peeking over the back of the couch. At least his shirt is back on. “Whatcha readin’?”

“A book.”

Atsumu snorts, hops over the back of the couch and lands with a thump next to Kiyoomi. “Well, yeah, course I know that. What kinda book?”

“Did you wash your hands?” Kiyoomi wills himself to not look at Atsumu. It doesn’t work. Atsumu raises his hands, palms facing Kiyoomi, and wiggles his fingers, clean and dry. “It’s a book by Fitzgerald.”

“Oooh, I know Fitzgerald. Great Gatsby, right? I remember readin’ that back in high school.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

Kiyoomi’s brows raise. “You were young.”

Atsumu nods slowly, lips pursed and arms crossed. He seems to have taken an interest to Kiyoomi’s coffee table, or maybe the box of tissues sitting on it. “Yeah, I was. How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven.”

Getting to know Atsumu actually isn’t too bad, Kiyoomi thinks as he prepares dinner. He’s a physical trainer, information Kiyoomi himself traded by telling Atsumu he works as a virtual assistant for all business inquiries to the government, and he prefers jogging outside before going to the gym for weights. He works Mondays to Fridays like Kiyoomi, but finds himself his sixth day at the gym on Saturdays anyway, and that his cheat days are on Sundays, like today.

Kiyoomi thinks he might have a couple ice bars left if Atsumu really wants one. When he asks, he finds it adorable how his eyes light up like a little kid’s, and then slides it across the island, where Atsumu sits on a barstool watching him.

Atsumu, for all it’s worth, isn’t a bad man. He’s all the things Kiyoomi knew him to be, but he’s more than that. He highly doubts people don’t have bad impressions of himself, either. He’s been told he’s strict, a little rude and sometimes too straightforward, but Kiyoomi doesn’t think _he’s_ a bad man, either.

They’re just fathers. They’re just people. Kiyoomi has learned that they’re more alike than what he had originally thought. Yumeko’s mother had left them years ago for reasons Atsumu won’t say and Kiyoomi reassured he didn’t have to, and Michiko’s—well, Kiyoomi had a feeling they never loved each other enough to make an effort in lasting.

It’s fine, no hard feelings. Kiyoomi is content being a single parent, raising his daughter by himself, and watching Atsumu go jogging in the mornings. It’s easy, he thinks, as he sends a text to his daughter about dinner being ready.

Atsumu perks up from where he sits upon hearing the girls’ voices filter through the space. “When’d ya call for ‘em?”

He lifts his phone and waves it, a hint of a smile on his face. “We don’t all have a voice like you do, Atsumu.”

The look on the blonde’s face is hilarious enough for Kiyoomi to choke out a little laugh, the widest he’s ever grinned around Atsumu. He sees something flash across his face, too quick for him to understand what it is, but figures he won’t question it as he sets the table for everyone.

“How’s yer li’l playdate goin’?” Atsumu asks, taking the seat across from his daughter. Kiyoomi does the same.

“I _told_ ja not to call it a playdate! It’s a _hang out.”_

Atsumu gives them a quizzical look. “Yeah, but you guys are playin’.”

Michiko speaks, “We’re hanging out.”

Dinner is normal for the most part. Kiyoomi’s egg noodles earn approval from everyone (not surprising, since he’s pretty picky with his own meals), and even Atsumu gives him a thumbs up over his big, first mouthful, which pockets him a look of mild disgust from Kiyoomi. It’s a little endearing, though.

It’s when they’re nearing the end does Kiyoomi notice something. There’s some sort of a silent communication between Michiko and Yumeko going on, and he turns to look at Atsumu, who gives him an _I-don't-know_ look from the corner of his eyes.

It goes on for a little bit, Kiyoomi thinking one of them will speak up, but then he sees Yumeko gently nudge Michiko with a whispered mumble of, “You ask, yer dad is cooler.” Well, Kiyoomi takes a bit of pride in that, especially after seeing Atsumu choke on his water.

“Spit it out, Michi,” Kiyoomi speaks with a laugh, napkin pressed to his mouth. “What is it?”

Michiko looks at him through her lashes, lips formed into childish pout, and Kiyoomi notes the way she rubs the corner of her folded napkin between her fingers. “Hana’s throwing a sleepover next Friday.”

His mouth opens a little, but then he snaps it closed. “And?”

“Well, I was just wondering if you’d let me go.”

“Is Yumeko going?”

Atsumu coughs loudly from beside him. “I’ll think about it.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “How many people are going?”

“Five, with the both of us,” Michiko responds.

“Is it a party?”

“No, it’s a _sleepover.”_

Kiyoomi doesn’t think he can see reason in not letting them go, but he glances to Atsumu anyway, who meets his eyes and clears his throat. “Will there be boys?”

“Maybe,” Yumeko responds casually. Kiyoomi successfully stifles the laugh from the way Atsumu’s jaw drops. “Joking! I’m joking, no, there won’t be boys.”

“That’s _not_ funny,” Atsumu croaks out, a sad frown on his face. He looks a little bit like a kicked puppy. Kiyoomi relaxes back into his seat.

“I don’t see the harm in letting them go,” he tells Atsumu, arms crossed. The girls perk up a little at that, share sideways glances, and Kiyoomi can see, out of the corner of his eyes, the way Michiko excitedly sucks her lower lip into her mouth. “It’ll be Michiko’s first sleepover, and I think she’d feel a little better if Yumeko is there, too.”

Kiyoomi is not actually a strict parent, maybe when it comes to studying and healthy meals, but, from his own experience, fun is part of the recipe to a good childhood, too. Atsumu lets out a huff and mumbles, “Fine,” while playing with his water glass. If Kiyoomi hadn’t known better, he’d think that Atsumu is a bit of a child himself, not that it’s a bad thing.

This time, Atsumu helps with washing the dishes, but doesn’t forget to complain about how Kiyoomi puts them through a second run in the dishwasher. “Who even uses the dishwasher? I just use it for storage.”

“My mother used to use it for storage,” explains Kiyoomi, “but I prefer to use it for its intended purpose.”

Afterwards finds the two on Kiyoomi’s back porch where he has something like a lounge set up. Wide patio couches and a propane fire pit in the middle. Kiyoomi didn’t spend much time outside unless it was sometime in the evening, but he’s been finding himself out here more ever since Michiko suggested they hang some lights up to make it prettier, and it’s beautiful, he won’t deny that. It’s still warm enough to not feel chilly from sitting outside in a t-shirt, but Kiyoomi brings a couple blankets out anyway, since he knows he runs a little cold.

He tosses one at Atsumu. “For you.”

“I’m good,” he says and sets it to the side, leaning forward on his knees with a beer in his hands. “Are you cold?”

“Not really,” but he lays the blanket across his shoulders anyway. “I just like feeling warm. Do you mind if I turn this on?”

Atsumu gestures forward. “By all means.”

The fire flicks gently. Kiyoomi leans back and watches the way the skies are beginning to darken above their heads, a dark blend of pinks, oranges, and purples meeting at the horizon.

“You have a real good relationship with yer daughter, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi turns to look at Atsumu and spends two seconds admiring the way his skin glows warm and red in front of the flames. “Do you not?”

Atsumu shrugs. “It’s all right. I feel like she’s startin' to enter her rebellious phase. I find it a little hard talkin’ to her lately.”

And he gets it, he really does. He’s thankful Michiko is open with her emotions and willing to talk to him about some of the stuff she’s going through, but he knows the feeling of not knowing whether or not he’s approaching about it the right way.

“Did you have one?”

“What? A rebellious phase?” Atsumu snorts, runs a hand through his hair. “Of course I’ve had one. Everyone has one. Didn’t you?”

Kiyoomi reaches for the beer that he had been tossed earlier but hasn’t opened yet. One drink is okay, he thinks. “Not really.”

“Well, I don’t believe ya. Everyone rebels in a different way.”

That’s also true. Kiyoomi grew up pretty studiously, a little withdrawn from the social life most people had. He remembers joining a sports team in high school just so he could stay out a little later. He remembers telling his parents he would apply to law school when he had little interest in it, and then recalls the disappointment on their faces when he had enrolled in the local university for business instead.

So, yeah, maybe Atsumu isn’t terrible at reading people. Kiyoomi did rebel in his own way. He takes a sip of his drink, tastes its malty bitterness on his tongue, and finds that he doesn’t mind it as much as he did the last time he had beer.

“I think… it’s fine to go through a bit of a rebellious phase,” Kiyoomi tells him, eyes to the fire. He doesn’t really know what he’s saying—never knows what to say in regards to parenting. After all, he’s still only learning by the day. “I’m not trying to tell you how to do things, especially since I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing most of the time, but I would have liked to know my parents were there for me no matter what I was going through.”

His gaze flickers up right at that moment, sees the way Atsumu looks at him, like he’s the only thing there to see, and blinks away, a little embarrassed.

“Y’know, yer not as bad as I thought.”

Kiyoomi scoffs, incredulous. “Talk about yourself, Miya.”

“Are we back to Miya now? Never mind, I lied, yer the worst,” Atsumu mumbles but his words carry no bite. If anything, Kiyoomi hears the smile behind it.

“Maybe casually bring it up,” offers Kiyoomi. “Just have her know you have her back. Sometimes being there is enough, at least for me.”

Atsumu nods. “Yeah, I will.”

When Atsumu and Yumeko leave that night, Kiyoomi offers them the one-minute ride home, but they say they’re okay and that it’s great weather for a short walk. When he sees them round the corner onto his driveway, Kiyoomi shuts the door gently and thinks he might have a crush.

Unfortunately for him, he’s not the only one that catches on (he thinks Michiko might have known way before him), because he comes out of the shower Friday morning to see his daughter seated at his work table, fingers tapping away on his laptop. It's too early for her to be playing games, and she knows he's got work soon, so Kiyoomi assumes she might be asking about homework or the likes, but he still approahces her cautiously.

He squints at the Facebook banner across the top of his screen, suspicious sinking deep into his toes. “Michi, what are you doing?”

“I’m messaging Miya-san.”

Kiyoomi’s heart flops like a fish out of water. “You’re _what?”_

“Yeah, on your Facebook.”

His jaw drops, and he suddenly feels too hot to be wearing a long sleeve. “You know what? Maybe you shouldn’t go to that sleepover tonight.”

“What? You already agreed to that.”

He stomps over and leans forward, palm resting on his desk, and reads the _plethora_ of paragraphs she had sent to his and Atsumu’s Facebook chat window, which had been previously empty. He can’t believe it. He stares at the screen, mortified. He’s raised the spawn of satan.

“I didn’t agree to _this_ —why would you—”

Michiko shrugs nonchalantly, but then a giggle escapes past her lips. “Just trying to do something nice for you. Anyways, I gotta get to school now! You don’t have to see me out, I’ll lock the door. Hey,” she says, and Kiyoomi forces his eyes away from the screen, “don’t go leaving him hanging. I know he’ll respond.”

Kiyoomi hears the front door close and then the lock click into place. His hands hover over the trackpad and wonders, momentarily, if he can still delete the messages, but then he scrolls all the way up to read the first message Michiko had sent.

> **Sakusa Kiyoomi**
> 
> Hello, Atsumu. It’s Sakusa Kiyoomi, Michiko’s father. I may come off a little abrupt, but please think little of the haste. I was wondering if you had time today to have a little bit of a hangout, as our kids like to call it.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn’t even _type_ like that.

> **Sakusa Kiyoomi**
> 
> If you haven’t noticed, I think that you are very attractive, and I like to watch you go jogging in the mornings while drinking my coffee. It had taken me by surprise when you started to go jogging without a shirt on, but I actually prefer it that way. Your muscles are very impressive.

Kiyoomi thinks he should crawl into a hole and lay there until his last breath. It’s fine to die in a hole sometimes, and this is one of those sometimes. This is definitely going to be the first message he deletes.

> **Sakusa Kiyoomi**
> 
> Did we ever take a class together? I think you and I have a bit of chemistry.
> 
> **Sakusa Kiyoomi**
> 
> I would like to get to know you more, so I am suggesting that you come over since our daughters will be at the sleepover tonight. We can watch a movie and hold hands, but only if you want to. I want to. I like to watch Disney movies with my daughter, but I am actually a fan of thrillers. If you are afraid, we can cuddle.

This is terrible. This is the worst. Kiyoomi thinks Michiko might be too smart for her own good—she might, actually, be the reason he grows grey hairs before he even turns forty, and that thought is somewhat more relieving than Atsumu potentially seeing these messages. He scrolls further down.

> **Sakusa Kiyoomi**
> 
> I am single and lonely, so please do not worry about there being any complications. My daughter told me that she learned from Yumeko that you are divorced, so I hope that you are also searching. I think that you and I would make an excellent couple. Michiko thinks that we look cute together.
> 
> **Sakusa Kiyoomi**
> 
> Please consider this. I will be awaiting your response please have a good day thak uou,

Kiyoomi assumes that this is where he catches her, seeing as to how she completely forgoes her perfect grammar and spelling, meant to reflect his own writing style (she doesn’t even message him with proper capitalization). Still, he would _never_ say something like this to anyone, never mind Atsumu.

Despite the flush of humiliation in his face, a part of him still finds it a little funny. Oh well, it was good while it lasted. He’ll give Michiko points for trying, he thinks, and goes to remove the most recent one sent.

Well, he had been planning on it, until a tiny bubble with Atsumu’s Facebook profile picture pops up next to it.

Oh god.

Kiyoomi can’t delete it now—it’ll look too suspicious. It’ll look like he actually _did_ send them and then changed his mind last minute, and Atsumu will watch as each paragraph disappears. Kiyoomi knows it’s too late, Atsumu _must_ have read at least _something,_ if not all of it, and sits back in horror as he lets it sink in. How on earth is he supposed to recover from something like _this?_

A typing bubble appears from Atsumu’s side.

> **Miya Atsumu**
> 
> lol yea sure i get off work at 5

That’s it? That’s all Atsumu has to say? Kiyoomi leans forward, bottom lip worried between his teeth as his fingers go flying across his keyboard.

> **Sakusa Kiyoomi**
> 
> Never mind. I don’t want you to.
> 
> **Miya Atsumu**
> 
> too late u cant take it back
> 
> **Sakusa Kiyoomi**
> 
> I didn’t even send those.
> 
> **Miya Atsumu**
> 
> see u tonight omi omi~

Kiyoomi dreads what’s to come. He doesn’t even have much time to think about it because he has work in fifteen minutes and will have to deal with people who he swears sometime has one single brain cell in the shape of a middle finger to tell him _fuck you_ and _you actually like this._

He drives Michiko to Hana’s after she gets home and showers, promises she’ll spend all her Saturday doing homework, and then pulls up to his driveway just in time for Atsumu to get there, too, in light jeans and plain, white tee. He looks the same, but Kiyoomi thinks the same always looks undeniably attractive.

“So,” Atsumu starts, strolling up to Kiyoomi’s driver’s side as he gets out, car parked in his garage, “you and I got a bit of chemistry, huh?”

Kiyoomi scowls, glare meant to look threatening but falling just short of it. “I told you I didn’t send those.”

“Yer single and lonely, wanna hold my hand and watch Disney movies. I get it, yeah.”

“It’s not too late for me to kick you out.”

“Will ya?”

Kiyoomi ignores him and walks up the steps to his garage door, then tosses a glance past his shoulder. “Are you going to come in or not?”

They toe their shoes off in the boot room, Atsumu lining his sneakers up beside Kiyoomi’s dress shoes, and head down the hall. “Thought you were thinkin’ of kickin’ me out.”

“I still might.”

“Hey, ya still owe me a favour for takin' that box of pancake mix from me.”

“I didn't take it from you. I saw it first.”

“Sure, whatever you say, mister I-think-we-look-cute-together.”

Kiyoomi spins on his heels, eyebrows anchored and cheeks dusted with pink. "Michi thinks that."

"And you don't?"

His mouth shuts with a click, then pulls out his phone. “I’m ordering food.”

“It’s fine, save yer money, we can cook.”

He watches Atsumu swing the fridge door open and bend down to take a peek inside. Kiyoomi has never seen someone so casually make their way around like they know where everything is, but he discovers it’s a little terrifying when he realizes he doesn’t hate the way Atsumu looks in his home—he fits in unbelievably well, like he’s meant to be there, like Kiyoomi wakes up to him and falls asleep to him day and night.

They end up making something quick and easy, still filling and healthy, because Atsumu seems to as good a chef as he is at the gym, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know firsthand what Atsumu is like at the gym, but he has a feeling he does his job well. He should have guessed, though, considering how fluffy those pancakes had been when he had been over at his.

"How was work today?" Atsumu asks as they're cleaning up their dinner plates.

Kiyoomi shrugs. It wasn't terrible; wasn't anything out of the usual despite the anxiety that had coursed through his veins knowing Atsumu had read all of those messages thinking Kiyoomi's got the hots for him—and yeah, it's not a lie, but that was definitely not how he wanted him to find out. Truthfully, he still doesn't even know if he would have ever told Atsumu at all. "It was okay," is what he settles for. "I had someone ask me what a business license was."

Atsumu barks out a laugh, gloved hands running under hot water. "Please, _please_ tell me you just send them the FAQ page."

"I did," Kiyoomi responds with a small laugh. Atsumu's laughter is infectious. "How was work for you?"

Atsumu passes him the last plate. "Same old. Nothing outta the ordinary."

Kiyoomi starts the cycle on the dishwasher, washes his hands, and guides them to the couch in their living room to find a movie to watch. They're scrolling through the front page of Kiyoomi's Netflix account when he decides he should maybe come clean; clear the air.

“I really didn’t send those messages,” Kiyoomi explains. “Michiko did.”

“I know. I had a bit of a feelin’ you wouldn’t call me Atsumu. But was she wrong?” inquires Atsumu, who tosses a look at him.

Kiyoomi plays with the throw pillow in his lap, fingers tugging gently at the corner, and pouts through his grumble, “No.”

Atsumu doesn't respond immediately, but there isn't an awkwardness in their silence, Kiyoomi leans sideways into the couch's armrest to observe Atsumu's side profile. His features are incredibly sharp, his nose a long, pretty slope into a curve of a gentle philtrum and thick lips. Kiyoomi can't believe Atsumu is here, alone and willingly.

“She said ya liked thrillers, right?” Atsumu speaks up, eyes to the screen. "What about The Zodiac? It's got Mark Ruffalo—"

“You’re wrong, though.”

Atsumu pauses and turns to stare into Kiyoomi’s eyes with a tilt of his head. “‘Bout what?”

“I would call you Atsumu. I wouldn't have sent all those long paragraphs, but I don't think I'd mind watching a movie and holding your hand if you got scared."

He's silent, like he's taking Kiyoomi in. He feels a shiver crawl up his spine, but he refuses to back down from that look Atsumu gives him.

"You're givin' me bedroom eyes right now."

Kiyoomi swallows at the dryness in his throat and challenges him. "Am I?"

Atsumu tosses the remote to the side, shifts a little closer. “Y’know, I like to think you’d wanna do more than just cuddle and hold hands.”

"Do I?" Kiyoomi glides a tongue over his lips despite the butterflies in his stomach, the look Atsumu giving him sultry, eyes intoxicatingly captivating.

“It’s just us here, ain’t it?” Atsumu whispers, leaning a little closer. Kiyoomi doesn’t pull away, so when their lips meet he expects it, but he isn’t prepared for the way Atsumu kisses him, soft and gentle, everything he didn’t know Atsumu could be in moments like this.

Kiyoomi, on the other hand, is hungry, like he’s been deprived for days— _weeks_ —and nips and sucks and curls his arms behind Atsumu’s neck to pull him closer. A noise leaves Atsumu’s mouth but Kiyoomi swallows it down, lets Atsumu crowd him into the end of the couch and dip his tongue in his mouth like he’s never had a treat before.

“Atsumu,” he breathes out when they pull apart, just enough for his tongue to tickle Atsumu’s when he swipes it across his bottom lip, wet and puffy.

“Have you been waitin' for this, Omi?” Atsumu mumbles against his cheeks, presses a kiss there, and trails to his neck. “I bet ya have. Know you’ve been watchin’ me, even before this mornin’. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Don’t talk,” Kiyoomi mumbles, a fistful of Atsumu’s hair in his hand, and tilts his head to the side to allow the glide of a smooth tongue along his throat.

“Ya like my muscles, don’tcha? You can touch ‘em if ya wanna.” Atsumu closes a hand around the one pressed into the pillow and guides it to his bicep. Kiyoomi squeezes tentatively, then harder, feels how solid it is, how _hard_ it is, and bites down on his bottom lip.

“You like that?”

All Kiyoomi can do is let out a shaky breath, eyes trained on his own hand trailing up to the shoulder, squeezing there, and then back down to his forearm. Atsumu is so fucking _hot_ and Kiyoomi has him _on top of him._ He’s not even surprised to find himself hard when Atsumu nudges his legs open to press his thigh up, a choked moan pulling from his lips.

“Had no idea you were into somethin’ like this, Omi.”

“Be quiet.” Kiyoomi clutches at the front of Atsumu’s shirt and yanks him down into another bruising kiss, palm flattening against defined pecs. He feels a hand trail down his front, rests it right above the button of Kiyoomi’s slacks, then slips underneath his shirt, palm warm and fingers electrifying.

“We are not fucking on my couch,” Kiyoomi pants out, hand curled over Atsumu’s wrist. The trip to their bedroom proves to be a little difficult with the way Atsumu kisses him into the stair railing, grip tight over his hips and metal digging into his lower back. They nearly knock into the door frame when Kiyoomi digs his nails into Atsumu’s back, lips locked.

“Shit,” Atsumu says, landing above Kiyoomi on his bed with his arms caging him in, “you're so fuckin’ hot, y’know that?”

They had gotten rid of their shirts somewhere along the way—he’ll figure it out and pick them up after, there are more pressing matters at hand right now, literally, as Atsumu closes a hand over Sakusa’s dick through his pants.

“Atsumu,” he groans out, head tossed back and hips lifting. “Take it off.”

He says nothing and listens, fingers undoing the button and the zipper, and pulls everything off until Kiyoomi’s bare, naked and exposed, underneath him. It’s been a long time since he’s felt so vulnerable, especially under a burning gaze he can only find in Atsumu’s eyes, but he doesn’t think he hates it when Atsumu kisses down his stomach and tells him he’s beautiful.

“Oh, _baby,”_ Atsumu croaks out, hands dragging up and down Kiyoomi’s thighs, “look at you.”

Kiyoomi raises an arm to his eyes, not wanting to see the expression Atsumu gives him when he’s looking at him like he belongs in a god damn _museum._ A hand ghosts over his wrist and gently tugs it to the side, where it’s pressed into the covers.

“Look at me,” whispers Atsumu, “look at me look at you. You’re so fuckin’ sexy, Omi.” He brings Kiyoomi’s hand down to the front of his jeans, a solid, obvious bulge pressing against the fabric. “Feel that? That’s how hard ya make me.”

Kiyoomi is starting to get an idea of what Atsumu is like in the bedroom. Wordy, mouth hot and dripping with provocation. It shouldn’t be this hot, but the curl at the pit of his stomach tells him it does more than just make Kiyoomi desperate.

“Hurry up and fuck me, Atsumu,” he manages, then turns on his torso, Atsumu still between his thighs, to reach for his condoms and lube, buried deep somewhere in his top drawer. Atsumu leans over him to knock his hand away.

“I got it, Omi, lay back for me.”

They kiss, needy and hungry, as Atsumu traces a lubed finger around Kiyoomi’s hole. He pushes inside and feels the clench down around it, moans into Kiyoomi’s mouth and tells him to _relax, baby, I’ve got ya,_ and Kiyoomi does. He throws his head back into his pillows, frustrated with how slow the pace is, and fucks himself down on his finger.

“Come on, Atsumu, give me more.”

“Yeah Omi?” He smirks through his words, traces another finger around the rim, and pulls out completely before pressing two fingers in. “More?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi pants out, hand closing around the arm holding Atsumu up. He squeezes down purposely and feels his dick twitch, then harder to draw a groan from Atsumu’s parted lips.

He rocks down on Atsumu’s fingers, three now. “Faster, Atsumu. You’re so fucking slow.”

Like Atsumu takes it as a challenge, he cocks a brow and feels around until it hits something that sends shocks all the way to his toes, a lewd _ah!_ punched out of him. Atsumu’s lips curl, and pumps his fingers so fast Kiyoomi sees stars behind his eyelids, an orgasm building quickly as his hand jerks himself quickly.

“Slow?” Atsumu repeats, voice shaking as he fingerfucks Kiyoomi to heaven. 

“Stop, _stop,_ I’m gonna come,” he sobs out, toes curling. The hand around his dick is knocked away, pressed into the mattress with a bruising grip, and the fingers inside him are gone in an instant. His chest rises and falls with erratic breaths as he watches Atsumu struggle to peel open the condom, wet fingers slipping along the foil. Kiyoomi reaches forward and tugs it out of his hand, opens it for him.

“I hate you,” he mutters, tossing the condom at Atsumu’s chest, and watches him catch it in his hands.

“Yer the one who told me to stop!”

“I know, so we can actually get to the _fucking.”_

Atsumu shimmies out of his jeans with enough difficulty for Kiyoomi’s attention to catch onto the way he has to peel the fabric off thick thighs, bulging with every flex. His breath hitches, hand around his cock again to pump it slowly. If Kiyoomi is going to the gym one of these days, it’s going to be because he wants to watch Atsumu in action.

Although this isn’t too far off, either, as Atsumu rolls the condom on himself and drips lube down. He presses his hands into the undersides of Kiyoomi’s thighs and shoves them upward, lets his dick drag along his puckered hole.

 _“Atsumu,”_ Kiyoomi hisses out, stressed with anticipation and forehead sweaty as he hones in on the way the tip of Atsumu’s cock peeks up with every thrust of his hips.

“Ya ready, Omi?”

“I’ve been _telling_ you—”

Atsumu pushes in slowly, a thumb pressed down on his cock to prevent it from popping back out. Kiyoomi has no idea what face he’s making right now, but Atsumu seems to like it, because he leans forward, lips ghosting over his chin, and rolls his hips a little.

“Come _on,_ Atsumu,” Kiyoomi urges, fingers digging into his shoulders, but Atsumu hushes him.

“No rush, Omi, we’ve got all the time tonight.” He pulls up, thrusts back in a little deeper, and then again, until he’s picking up enough of a pace to have Kiyoomi breathing out harshly into the crook of Atsumu’s neck, arms curled around his back.

It isn’t until Atsumu’s leaning back up, hips snapping _deep_ and hitting Kiyoomi right where he needs him to does he start choking on his moans, cut off and stuttered every time their skin slaps against each other. He shoves Kiyoomi’s legs into his chest, spreads him wide, and fucks him open.

“How’s that, Omi?” Atsumu pants out, drags his cock out slowly and then shoves it back inside like it’s where it belongs, buried inside Kiyoomi. The smile on his face is smug, hooded eyes looking into Kiyoomi’s and sending a flood of arousal throughout his body.

“Faster,” he demands, thumb pressing into Atsumu’s biceps. “Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got to show.”

“Yeah?” Atsumu presses forward with a kiss to his lips, keeps his hips there, unmoving and so deep Kiyoomi feels embarrassingly _full._ “Don’t hate me if ya can’t handle it.”

“Shut up and give it to me.”

Atsumu doesn’t have to be told twice, because he slams forward with a pace Kiyoomi had asked but didn’t prepare for. It’s brutal, the way he can feel Atsumu’s cock slide in and out of him, rubbing him _raw;_ the way Atsumu looks at him like he wants to _devour_ him.

“Oh, _fu-u-u-uck,”_ Kiyoomi cries out, neck sweaty against his pillow and blonde hair blurring through teary eyes. It’s so good—it’s _so good_ how Atsumu fucks him, hard and desperate like he wants Kiyoomi to look only at him, only at him and _nobody else._

“God, look at you, Omi,” Atsumu grunts out, sweat dripping down his neck, and looks to where they’re connected in awe. “Look at how well ya take my cock.”

“Atsumu, _Atsumu-u-u,”_ Kiyoomi calls out, toes curling, “I’m close, _so clo-ose_.”

Atsumu hugs one of Kiyoomi’s legs to his chest and lets the other one fall to the side, a hand curling over Kiyoomi’s dick to fist it up and down. “C’mon, Kiyoomi, ya gonna come for me?”

“Yes, _yes,_ I’m gonna come, _I’m gonna come,”_ and Kiyoomi is coming, body hot with shocking jolts and a tight clench around Atsumu’s cock. His back arches off the bed, with a hand stroking him through it gently. Then Atsumu is thrusting again, whispering dirty secrets against the shell of his ear, telling him how gorgeous he looks coming undone underneath him.

“Gonna come, Omi,” he breathes out, cheeks flushed and eyebrows scrunched. “Can I come on ya?”

Kiyoomi gives a hum of approval, elated and high off endorphins, and clenches down on cool air when Atsumu slides out and tugs the condom off, wrist jerking fast as he comes over Kiyoomi’s abdomen. Their breaths echo each other, harsh and eventually quieter. Atsumu rolls to his side and collapses beside him, chest heaving and eyes closed. He looks incredibly blissed out, and Kiyoomi feels a little indulgent knowing _he’s_ the reason for that smile on Atsumu’s face, lazy and comfortable.

A hand closes around Kiyoomi’s, and wide, pretty eyes meet his. “Still wanna hold hands?”

“You’re already holding my hand.”

“How ‘bout a movie?”

Kiyoomi sits up slowly, back aching, and grunts out, “How about a shower?”

“Yeah, okay.” Atsumu lays there as Kiyoomi stands up, cum already beginning to dry on his stomach, and heads towards the washroom, a little embarrassed.

He pauses just before he reaches the handle, then looks back to Atsumu. “Are you coming or not?”

It seems it takes a little while for Atsumu to understand what he’s suggesting, but when it kicks in past that euphoric haze in his mind, he’s clambering onto his feet, nearly tripping off the bed, and making his way to him.

Kiyoomi wonders if maybe the universe _does_ have it out for him. Perhaps Atsumu had been tossed into his life like it wanted to watch Kiyoomi struggle with something he had never grappled with before, but, despite the crush that had weighed on him, made juggle his thoughts back and forth thinking he might like Atsumu, might not like him, Kiyoomi thinks he can handle it. He feels as though he might have overcome something nobody had expected him to.

Falling in love with Miya Atsumu is easy because there was no way around it. Like a perpetual cave with only one exit, there he stands at the end of it. Kiyoomi doesn't take it back; he doesn't take back when he had thought about Atsumu being a curse upon his life, doesn't take back on feeling like he's the biggest contributor to whatever downfall he had been spouting about back then. If Kiyoomi falls and hits rock bottom, there's no way else to go but up, right? And Atsumu is there, arm outstretched with a hand clasped around his, to pull him back up.

“What are ya thinkin' about?” asks Atsumu when they’re curled up in bed together. Kiyoomi feels the brush of a hand against his, so he reaches out to take it with a small smile, mildly distracted.

“It was a nice ‘hangout.’”

Atsumu hums, cheek pressed to Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “I think so too. Ya don’t mind us havin’ a ‘sleepover’ too, right?”

Kiyoomi tells him to shut up, but they both know the answer to that cheesy line is a strong and solid _no._

**Author's Note:**

> I KNOW i know im late to day 6 but i got caught up with some stuff BUT ITS FINE RIGHT i completed day 6 and day 7 is practically ready so that's coming short afterward
> 
> ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED SOME SINGLE PARENTS SAKUATSU !! i haven't written porn in s o long LMAO i hope i did okay hdhsfhh
> 
> anyways, come find me on my [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/milkocaine) !! always looking for friends <3
> 
> check out my other contributions to sakuatsu fluff week 2021!


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